


An Unlikely Heroine

by imaginarycircus



Category: Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, horrid novels, overactive imaginations, sarcastic husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarycircus/pseuds/imaginarycircus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catherine is convinced their neighbor was murdered and Henry is convinced that his wife has let her imagination overcome her common sense. But as we've seen--he's not always right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unlikely Heroine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alona/gifts).



Catherine Tilney had let the tea steep too long while pondering the heroine to corpse ratio in novels. To cover the bitterness she stirred in a spoonful of honey and admired her husband of six months across the small, round breakfast table. 

"Have you noticed that in horrid novels a heroine can barely traipse ten yards without tripping over a corpse? Why must there be so many?" 

Henry ate the last of his buttered toast and considered the question. Catherine wanted to apologize that they'd run out of jam, except blackberry. Neither of them liked blackberry jam. 

Her husband didn't seem to notice his tea was over strong and drank the rest of his cup. "I suppose a total lack of corpses would be lessening for the heroine."

"Lessening?" Catherine asked. It was a ridiculous conversation, but she liked to listen to him whether he was being serious or silly. 

He sat back in his chair and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Traversing a haunted house alone at night is well and good, but it can't be a truly terrifying ordeal if there aren't a few dead bodies. Do you think two would suffice? Or is three the minimum requirement?" 

"I know you are teasing, but I think two at the very least. I'm certain Mrs. Markham shall disagree." Mrs. Markham was a waspish invalid, whom no one else would visit.

"Mrs. Markham does tend to disagree with everyone." 

"Oh, that's very clever, Henry." Catherine peered at the sky and wished it weren't so cloudy. Rain would make Mrs. Markham's joints ache, but if Catherine didn't visit her, no one else would. 

"I should be excessively cross if I suffered half of what Mrs. Markham does," she said. Mrs. Markham was plagued by various agues, aches, and megrims. 

"And if Mrs. Markham suffered half of your half then the poor woman could never get out of bed." His wife's sweetness had tempered his cynicism, but Henry Tilney's sarcasm was incurable. 

"You think she exaggerates?" Catherine considered this as she nibbled her sad, jamless toast. "For the attention, I suppose. Was she always this way?"

"I don't know. Her daughter married an America and I do not think they are in contact. Mr. Markham died decades ago." 

"We're reading "The Romance of the Forest," but she interrupts to complain about the French names and then grows impatient to know what happens next even though she was the one who interrupted me." 

Henry grimaced and shook his head slowly. "I agree that it shows a deplorable lack of patriotism on Mrs. Radcliffe's part to write about French people with French names." 

"I don't suppose that kind of story could happen in England to English people." Catherine surveyed the neat green lawn and box hedges. "The most exciting thing that’s happened since I've moved here was when Mr. Jones accused Mr. Wrentham of stealing eggs and fell asleep guarding the henhouse and shot himself with his own rifle."

"You bloodthirsty creature," Henry said with affection. 

"He only injured his smallest toe. He's entirely recovered. All except his boots, which were utterly ruined." Catherine sighed very softly, but her husband heard her and she straightened up. "You mustn't think I long to be a heroine anymore. I should find it uncomfortable to flee from creditors while dragging a strange young woman all over Christendom with my husband who appears to be wildly in love with her."

"Well said, my dear. I'd rather a quiet evening at home, my debts squared away, and would, if possible, prefer not to gad about with women who do not belong to me." Henry sent her a look of such mischief that she wanted to do things one did not generally do in the breakfast room. But she was the vicar's wife. Her mother had impressed upon her that the village would watch everything she did until they were certain of her.

"You don't need to visit Mrs. Markham so often if she's truly unpleasant, Catherine." 

"I don't mind her. We ended at a very dramatic moment last time. I am certain she's dying to know what happened to Adeline and will be pleased to see me today." Catherine couldn't imagine a person who was indifferent to Adeline's fate. 

"It's very kind of you and I am sure in her own way she appreciates it." Henry excused himself, kissed her temple, and went to meet his curate. 

Catherine put on her bonnet and gloves and set off down the lane to Mrs. Markham's. It had rained the night before, but miraculously there was very little mud. The world felt washed clean. 

Lettie opened the door at Mrs. Markham's dark, cheerless home. She was a colorless girl with eyebrows so fair they were nearly invisible. "Morning, Mrs. Tilney. Mrs. Markham is still abed. Feeling poorly, no doubt. It's the damp." The girl bobbed a curtsey. 

"I think the sun might come out." They both glanced out the door at the leaden sky. Lettie leaned into the heavy old door to close it tightly. It had a tendency to stick otherwise. 

Catherine said she could find her way upstairs on her own and sent Lettie back to her duties. The house was quiet and dark and the stairs groaned and creaked as Catherine passed up them. 

Catherine tapped on the bedroom door, but there was no response. She opened it and peered into the gloom. "Mrs. Markham? It's Mrs. Tilney. I've come to read to you just as I promised."

The window curtains were drawn, but Catherine stoutly marched over and opened them. "There. It's a lovely morning. A little cloudy, but I really do think the sun is struggling to break through." 

The room smelled musty and sweet, like dead roses. Catherine opened the window a full two inches. "Some fresh air will do you good." 

Mrs. Markham hadn't chided her. Catherine approached the bed warily. Mrs. Markham liked to startle people by being quicker than one would expect. Catherine had tried to creep out more than once when Mrs. Markham had started to snore, but the slightest creak of a floorboard and one of her bony hands would shoot out and grab you. 

"Mrs. Mark—" Catherine gently touched the wrinkled, blue-veined hand on the coverlet. It was deathly cold. She leaned close and listened, even though she knew a person so cold and stiff could not be breathing. There was a dark line where her lips parted, like she'd been drinking red wine. 

Catherine dropped her novel, but neither screamed, nor swooned. She would like to have swooned a little, but fought it. She was the vicar's wife. She took a few moments to collect herself and noticed that several things were oddly out of place. 

She picked up her book and backed out of the room. The idea of turning her back on a dead person made her nervous. She went downstairs to the kitchen and practiced what she would say so as not to sound hysterical.

"Lettie, could you please fetch Constable Evans?" Catherine's hands were shaking. She clutched her book to her chest to hide it, but her voice had sounded calm. Almost. 

Mrs. Bridges, the cook, paused while peeling a potato. "Goodness. Is the missus convinced she's been robbed again? We had the constable here three times last month. Not a thing was missing." 

"I don't think she's been robbed." Catherine succumbed and sat heavily on one of the benches by a trestle table. "She's been murdered."

Lettie screamed. Catherine felt better that someone had and that it hadn't been her. 

"Murdered?" Mrs. Bridges clutched her heart and looked at the servant's stairs in alarm. "Is there... blood?"

"No. Nothing like that. Let me make you some tea, Mrs. Bridges. You've grown peaked." Catherine bustled the old woman into a seat. She sniffled into her apron.

"But I brought her breakfast tray up at half past," Lettie wailed, following Catherine across the kitchen. "She doesn't like to be woken. You know how she is, Mrs. Tilney."

"It's all right, Lettie." Catherine put her arm around the girl's shoulders. "I thought she was asleep at first as well. Do you think you could take a note to Mr. Tilney?" 

"I'd be pleased to do it. Don't want to be in the house with a murdered person." Lettie shivered and wrapped her thin arms around herself tight. "Oh, Mrs. Tilney are you certain she was murdered? Are we all in danger?

"I believe we are safe. If you could fetch me paper and a quill," Catherine said. She dashed off a note and entrusted it to Lettie. She paced the floor and waited for the kettle to boil. She picked up Mrs. Bridges's abandoned potato, peeled it, and dropped it into the pot of cold water with the others.

"Oh, Mrs. Tilney. Please don't trouble yourself." Mrs. Bridges struggled to stand, but Catherine waved her back down. 

"It was turning brown. I knew you wouldn't want to waste it. It was no trouble." 

"Mrs. Markham doesn't like any sort of waste. Oh! It seems wrong to be worrying about potatoes with poor Mrs. Markham…" She covered her mouth with her work reddened hands. Catherine crossed the kitchen and squeezed her shoulder. Mrs. Bridges had worked for Mrs. Markham for over 20 years and she stared beseechingly up at Catherine through watery, faded blue eyes. "I know she had a temper, but she wasn't a bad person. She always paid a fair wage for good work."

Catherine nodded in sympathy. She didn't share her thought, which was that everything feels wrong when someone has just died. Whether you sit and weep or peel potatoes. Mrs. Bridges was a widow and didn't need to be told that.

"Are there any biscuits?" Catherine peered into the pantry and located a seed cake. She set the pot of tea to steep in front of Mrs. Bridges and sliced her some cake, which the poor woman picked at, but couldn't eat. of course, she couldn't eat at a time like this.

"Catherine?" Henry called from the front hall. 

She dashed up to meet them, but paused at the top of the stairs and forced herself to walk sedately. Henry looked sombre and Mr Jones, the curate, looked like he'd rather be anywhere else and cleared his throat repeatedly, which made Constable Evans move away from him in the hall. What little gray hair Constable Evans had was plastered to his scalp. Catherine did not rush into her husband's arms or burst into tears. She moved sedately to his side. Vicar's. Wife. Henry squeezed her hand and with a look asked if she were all right. She nodded though she was not all right. She could be not all right later at home. 

"We'll go up and have a look then, Mrs. Tilney. Tis a sad business when respectable ladies can't sleep in their beds in peace." The constable shook his head and his jowls swung gently like a hound's. 

"Catherine, if you'd like to wait in the sitting room—" Henry began to say. 

"No, no. I'll be in the kitchen. Mrs. Bridges is over set." Catherine ran once she was out of their sight. She felt she must have something to do and went downstairs and peeled all the potatoes while Mrs. Bridges stared into her cup of cooling tea. Anything to keep from remembering the coldness of Mrs. Markham's hand or the waxiness of her skin.

Lettie hovered outside the kitchen door and refused to come back inside the house even when it started to drizzle. Catherine found a woolen cloak for her since she'd run off without even a wrap.

Mr. Jones found Catherine trying to coax Lettie inside with biscuits and tea. He cleared his throat twice. " Excuse me, Mrs. Tilney. Mr. Tilney and Mr. Evans would like to ask you a question or two. If you would kindly come up to the sitting room." 

Catherine gave up on Lettie and followed Mr. Jones. Henry and Constable Evans were standing in front of an unlit fireplace. The room was damp, dark, and charmless like the rest of the large, unloved house. 

"Catherine," Henry led her to sofa and sat beside her, his knees touching hers. He took both her hands in his "I know this has upset you, but you said that Mrs. Markham was murdered."

"Yes. I did."

Henry lowered his voice "I know your imagination sometimes—"

"It wasn't my imagination at all. She has been murdered." Catherine hadn't expected not to be believed.

Henry looked apologetically at the other two men. 

"Ma'am, weren't no sign of a struggle. Mrs. Markham appears to have died in her sleep." The constable spoke to her as if she were a particularly dim child. 

"I think I should take my wife home." Henry stood and offered her his arm. "She's had a terrible shock." 

She could read him so well now and she knew he was remembering that awful time she'd decided that Henry's father must have murdered his wife. Henry had been hurt and disgusted. She couldn't bear for him to feel that way now. And more pressing--she needed these men to understand that Mrs. Markham had been killed and there was someone out walking free who needed to be found.

As calmly as she could she asked the men to follow her upstairs. Without waiting for them to answer she proceeded and they had no choice, but to follow her. 

When they were all in the room, Catherine went to Mrs. Markham's side, but avoided looking at her. "She's not wearing the cap she sleeps in. I have never seen her without it."

Mr. Jones shook his head."A missing cap—"

"Please, hear me out." Catherine smoothed her skirt and looked carefully anywhere, but at the body. "There was an odd smell in the room when I came in. I opened the window before I realized she was… "

"My dear, please. Let me take you home." Henry moved toward her and she leapt back, knocking against the bedside table so that the arsenal of bottles and vials rattled. 

"Not yet. I am not finished explaining." Catherine turned and sorted through the bottles until she found what she was looking for—a small green one. She'd lost her calm and her voice grew shrill and thin. "This one! It shouldn't be here!"

"I'm sorry, you'll must excuse us," Henry said to Constable Evans. He gripped Catherine's arm firmly. "Please put the bottle down and let me take you home." His eyes were kind, but full of pity. It made her mad enough to bite him.

"Look in her mouth," Catherine said. The constable twisted his cap and cleared his throat. 

"Look…" She finally looked at Mrs. Markham's waxy face and choked. Henry carried her out of the room and got her home. She sobbed the entire way. He took her into the sitting room and pressed a glass of wine into her hands. The tinge of disappointment in his eyes deepened. 

She couldn't stop crying and her words bobbed here and there like fragments of wood on rough seas. "Henry… won't you… listen to me? I'm not… I'm not… " Such a choking series of sobs wracked her that Henry took the wine away before she drenched herself with it. 

"Catherine, my love. Please calm yourself. I should call for Dr. Crowley." He was beginning to sound quite frantic. She could not bear it and cried so desperately she gasped and her chest ached. Henry scooped her up and carried her upstairs where he loosened her stays so that she could breathe more easily. 

She wasn't sure how long she was lost to the storm of misery she'd been fighting so hard to hold back, but her eyes stung and her lips were cracked. Henry was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her as though she were dying. She hated seeing him in anguish. She realized she must get hold of herself.

"Might I have some water, please?" She was unable to stop sniffling, but was able to sit up and sip water. Henry smoothed her hair away from her face. It was coming out of its pins on the left side. 

She could feel more tears ready to pour forth, but closed her eyes and collected herself, telling herself she could sob all she liked later. At that moment she needed two things very badly. She needed to be certain that she wasn't imagining things and she needed Henry to believe her.

Her voice was hoarse. "I swear I'm not imagining anything. Please don't look at me like I'm that silly girl who thought such wicked things at Northanger Abbey." 

"I know you wouldn't do it maliciously—"

Someone banged on the front door and was admitted. Sarah tapped on the door to inform that Constable Evans urgently needed to speak to Mrs. Tilney and would she mind very much coming downstairs. 

Catherine hopped out of bed before Henry could stop her and grabbed a shawl and made it downstairs before he caught her. Hodges was standing in the hall with the constable who was dumbstruck by Catherine's disarray. 

"Evans?" Henry prompted the man. 

Constable Evans realized he was still wearing his hat and snatched it off his head. "I came to tell you that Mrs. Tilney was correct. Mrs. Markham was likely murdered."

"I beg your pardon?" Henry squinted at the constable as if to bring him into focus. 

"Look in her mouth, Mrs. Tilney said. We had the doctor in after you left. He looked in it all right. T'were black as pitch." 

"Come into the sitting room," Henry escorted Catherine in, but did not glance at her. He offered Constable Evans a brandy, but was refused. 

"I can't stay. I only wanted to ask Mrs. Tilney how she knew." 

Henry and the constable turned to her as if she were an exotic bird perched on the sofa. 

"I've been reading to Mrs. Markham three mornings a week for the last several months. Two weeks ago she tried a new medicine in a small green bottle and it made ill. Dr. Crowley took it away and told her not to take anything like it again. He asked her where she got it, but she wouldn't tell him."

"Do you know where she got it, Mrs. Tilney?" Constable Evans shifted uncomfortably and twisted his hat so hard that Catherine expected to hear stitches pop.

"Catherine, I am terribly sorry that I doubted you. If you know something. Please tell the constable." He squeezed her hands for courage this time. 

"The tonic in the green bottle..." Catherine felt terrible about what she was about to say. "I could be wrong. But I think her daughter sent it to her. From Boston. She sent the last one..."

"And?" Henry prompted. All three men were leaning toward her, which would have been comic in other circumstances. 

"She's desperate for funds. Her husband has been a disappointment. She's asked her mother for money several times. Mrs. Markham said she would give her daughter money when she died. And I am afraid... "

"Goodness. I remember Lizzy Markham. I can't believe she'd... " Constable Evans shook his head sadly, jowls swinging. "Well, I better contact Sir Reginald about this." He blustered about it being a terrible thing on the way out. Mr. Jones melted away. And Henry took Catherine in his arms and held her. 

"Cry if you want to," he said. 

"Not just now." She leaned against him and took a deep breath against his lapel, enjoying the smell of starch and linen. She leaned back and looked him in the eye. "I've decided that one corpse is too many." 

"I imagine so," Henry said. 

She cried later and truth be told, Henry teared up as well. Elizabeth Markham was apprehended in Southhampton when she disembarked from a ship. And Mrs. Markham was buried beneath the apple tree in the churchyard.


End file.
